


Amber Cider, Golden Straw, and Ebony Feathers

by ScarletGunnerPuppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Autumn, Dorks in Love, Fantasy AU, M/M, Ravens, Scarecrows, cursey magic happenings, harvest season, sorta feudal Europe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2518208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletGunnerPuppy/pseuds/ScarletGunnerPuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the sun broke the horizon, the raven extended his wings and took to the air. An ebony feather flittered down to rest on the shoulder of the static scarecrow. Never in their world had there been two beings so misunderstood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amber Cider, Golden Straw, and Ebony Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> "Don't be silly, Toto. Scarecrows don't talk."  
> ~The Wizard of Oz

When the serfs sow the seeds across the lord’s estate, they do as tradition mandates and construct a man of straw to oversee the year’s crop. 

Rough hands stuff and clothe a rugged effigy of rough burlap, old straw, and worn apparel. Gracelessly, a farmer plants it deep within the soil on the edge of the sown field.  
“What a damned waste of time.” the man’s growl is bitter and his lankier companion shakes his head in agreeing frustration.  
“If we were to build a perch for the thieving avians, we should just install a birdbath. For all this trouble, what reward will we reap? It’s a shame something as mismatched as this poor creation exists. All it’ll be is a tool that can’t serve its purpose.” what began as a gruff supplement turned into an exasperated sigh.  
“You look upon the matter too deeply.” is the dryly amused huff of the rough farmer, who claps his spindly friend on the back. “Besides, it’ll keep out most fools, ya know, displaying the lord’s crest plainly as it is. We should move along, we have more to set up anyway. Dawdling here and imagining this one to be any more interesting than those unmade is an even bigger waste, or so I suppose.” 

The rough farmer and his lanky companion trudge along. The scarecrow is left alone. Shade creeps over it as the sun crosses the sky, hiding it from the warmth of day.

…  
Lonesome, the solitary raven sat observing the toil of the serfs in yonder golden field. Waves of grain ebbed and flowed. Something was kindled in his eyes as they fell upon the rugged straw man at shadow’s edge.  
…  
Months passed uneventfully. The scarecrow endured the best and worst weather, the wettest rain and hottest sun, the clearest and the cloudiest of days. He stood alone as the serfs continued to work the field and raise the crop. Wet spring turned over into scorching summer until the world began to shift towards change.

The low hanging moon illuminated the cerulean sky. As it steadily rose, its white glow permeated the fields below. In a state of growing season beginning to wane, a change was beginning occur to the quiet farmland. A lone scarecrow stood in the edge of such a field near a completely bare tree. Its eerie stillness continued as the wind curled around its dark coat and scarf. Moonlight cast odd shadows across its rough features. Not a single human soul flickered awake. The world was captured in slumber for miles.  
...  
As the moon rises, the long shadows it casts shorten and condense. The scarecrow continues its sentry over the field. Clouds shift across the evening sky to alter the projection of the moonlight. The unnatural silence of the night shatters with the low throaty call of a raven perched high in the branches of a skeleton tree that had long before shed its leaves.

“Cras. Cras.”

 It calls out into the night with a tangible urgency. Its odd dark eyes gleaming in the shifting moonlight. It preens its ebony feathers nervously and waits, unsure of exactly what. The raven descends, hopping from branch to branch, until it rests on a lower bough of the old tree. Its black body glows with a curious sheen as the moonbeams dance across its plumage. As it progresses to the end of its perch, the bough dips under its weight and effort. Dark eyes keenly train on the field before it expectantly and its whole avian frame inclines forward in eager interest. A change rolls into the sky.  
...  
The scarecrow melted into shadow as the cloud cover blanketed their world in darkness and swallowed the full autumn moon. An urgent cry from the raven was all that was.  
...  
“Cras.”

Another celestial shift, amber eyes meet a soft brown gaze with curiosity and longing.

The raven stands, his cloak of black feathers illuminated by the full moon, great black beak dividing his face and resting upon the bridge of his nose. The scarecrow remains in awe for a moment. Both are silent.

Without warning or meditation, the raven surges forward and closes the distance between himself and the scarecrow. Almost nose to nose, the straw man holds his gaze and position as his scarf lifts and spins in the autumn breeze. The raven tentatively raises a hand to rest on the curve of the scarecrow’s jaw, his black talons trail over the soft tanned flesh adorned with freckles.

“Marco.” though a bit rougher and slower from change, his voice is clear enough and so warm. Called by name, the straw man leans into the soft touch.

“Jean.” it's more of a self revelation than a greeting. The raven lowers the hood of his cloak revealing his two-toned hair to the glow of the autumn eve. They stand, foreheads pressed together, at the edge of the field, eyes tightly closed in a moment of reunion. Perhaps, only the two ill fated understand their position.

“Come.” Jean implores with all his previous urgency. The raven tugs on the scarecrow, their hands clasped and fingers intertwined. They step further and further towards the edge of the field. That is, until the gaze of both falls to the straw man’s feet that become firmly rooted to the ground just before the border where the trees begin. 

“I cannot.” the sharp pain in the eyes of the straw man is reflected by his companion’s dark, amber gaze of longing.   
“I suppose if you are bound to your site, then I shall linger here with you.” The straw man looks rather melancholy for a moment, as if he wants to protest but cannot find the heart to. The raven decides in this moment that he will break this bondage.

The raven spends his evening perched beside his scarecrow charting constellations in the sky and defining the shapes of remaining clouds as stars fall and glimmer hopefully above. The glow of warm eyes and the glint of wide smiles characterizes the night of the full moon. 

As the evening dies and the sun approaches, threatening to break their peace, the avian and straw man stir from their refuge. Stiff joints strain and pop as the two rise to their feet, sigh, and accept their present.

Return, though unsaid, is promised.

…  
As the sun broke the horizon, the raven extended his wings and took to the air. An ebony feather flittered down to rest on the shoulder of the static scarecrow. Its old, torn hat and dark apparel were turned gold-tinged by the viscous blanket of sunrise.  
… 

The odd raven continues on through the day as he always has. Solitary behavior continues. He even feeds alone, not caring much for his noisy kind. Though, he may observe them in hopes of finding a cache. He wishes to spend even more of his time in thought than before. His own false caches serve to protect his own hollow in the skeleton tree. He hates to stray too far from this focal point of his existence.

On the occasion that he encounters a serf, the raven is met with worse harsh treatment as harvest draws nearer and the crop becomes more vulnerable. Though unable to sate his restlessness in the sun, trips to the main estate often yield things of interest from time to time. A treasured find is a silver chain, which after its recovery from the lord’s chamber (the doors carelessly left ajar by the staff cleaning the manor), adorns his neck with a nice lighter, metallic contrast to his soft, dark complexion. The avian strings it around his neck ask he collects more trinkets for his hollow, some of practical use but most of decorative value.

Dusk brings respite. Dawn grows bittersweet. The raven’s longing flourishes under the waning moon while scarecrow’s domain shrinks with Luna as harvest progresses. Sometimes, the avian drops in just before dusk with a surprise, often from the manor’s storehouse and often bound in cloth or whicker basket. The raven works hard to make the imprisonment of his companion bearable.

One time like this, he aspires for a simple picnic. The challenge such a task presents him is a source for a bitter guffawing “cras” or two.

The wind flutters through the raven’s feathers as he swoops into one of the bustling manor’s windows left agar in the late day’s heat. Knowledgable of the movements of people in the house throughout the day, he scuttles through the shadow with the aid of his inky black plumage. Confident that his route is clear, he progresses through long and winding corridors to reach the kitchen. Upon the first opportunity, he makes his way to the rafters and prepares for his chance to snag a treat. Some sliced meat, a wheel of cheese, and a loaf of bread later, he pulls a sack, clenched in his beak, along as he hops for the window. With a whoosh he’s out and about to make off with his loot before he is stricken with a hopeful idea. After carefully stashing his surprise in the hollow of the skeleton tree, he’s returning to scout the cellar in hopes of finding a treat for the occasion.

Now certain of his choice, removing the wine from the cellar proves itself to be a worthy task. The raven, less confidant of the pattern of the manor people’s access to the wine cellar, jumps at every stray sound or movement. So maybe, the raven is able to conclude that, strutting in and out was indeed an unrealistic plan of action.

His caution is given good purpose upon discovery by a servant, likely seeking drink for his master. All that is clear as the ebony avian struggles to flee with his prize is hectic fluttering of wings, dispersal of feathers, and excited cursing. Happy to escape with only a cuff or two and maybe some bruises and scrapes, the raven proudly brandishes his accomplishment as he soars away and anticipates the night to come. He cannot be bothered by the few drops of scarlet that will crust the feathers of his wing a rusty crimson that will mar his uniform ebony.

When the scarecrow stirs with a warm greeting on his tongue he is slightly alarmed by his raven, who greets him hanging upside-down from a low tree bough. His face is unmistakably adorned by a bright, cocky grin and the hood of the cloak falls awkwardly from his face.  
“Hi.” Jean’s glee carries into his speech.  
“I- hi.” Marco replies a bit taken aback by the proximity and unpredictability of his companion. Jean somersaults down and reaches up to slide his surprise from the end of the branch. A stolen blanket is spread at the base of the tree, just before the neat rows of crop begin. The raven plops down onto it with less agility than he oft displays, and then reaches up to tug his companion with him. Before Marco can even form a question, Jean is rummaging through the sack and produces bread and cheese for each. He tears the dried meat for them to share and offers Marco a mischievous smirk before producing an expensive bottle of wine.  
“I see you preened your feathers and everything.” Marco erupts with a chuckle of amusement and eagerness shining in his eyes.   
“Well, gee.” Jean barks and rolls his eyes with mock offense.   
“And now they’re all ruffled again.” Marco gleefully replies before giggling and reaching across to smooth the feathers on his shoulder. Jean joins in it with him and both feel lighter. This giddiness is something that they can only offer each other in these teasingly short rendezvous under the evening sky. Their fit is broken by the rumble of Marco’s stomach, and their eyes meet with mirth before both finally tear into their bread. Jean is ravenous and hastily devours most of his share. Marco spreads the soft cheese over the fresh bread and savors the meal in small bites, occasionally nibbling on the salted meat.  
“It’s nice Jean. Thank you.” his voice is grateful and warm, as it tends to be. It heats Jean’s face and melts his caustic front. Rather than stumble over language, Jean works to uncork the wine.  
“I’d have given you a more real experience, but I was lucky to get this bottle.” Jean admits with a bit of sheepishness. “We’ll have to pass it back and forth between us without any of that ideal tasting and “letting it breathe” in a wineglass bullshit.” He scratches at the back of his neck before offering it to Marco for the first taste. Marco glances down at it and up at Jean. He notices a soft bruise blossoming on his cheek, and his fingers move to graze it.  
“It’s nothing, really.” murmurs Jean with a warm gaze. Marco’s concern is not quick to dissipate.  
“It doesn’t appear to be nothing.” concern laces his gaze. It’s an unfamiliar thing for the solitary raven.  
“A servant on the estate struck me when I stole the line. Really, it’ll heal.” he found himself rubbing the back of his neck as he cast his eyes to the ground dismissively.   
“That is something, though. You didn’t need to go through all that trouble.” Marco sighs but his eyes betray his appreciation.  
“My plan was a bit flawed.” Jean shrugged. “But, I wanted to do something nice.” He leaves out the ‘for you’ that hangs on the tip of his tongue but the truth is regardless. Marco smiles small, but ever so genuinely. 

“Well then,” Marco slowly sips from the bottle and hums in content at the pleasant flavor. “Cheers.” he offers with the bottle. They hold it between them for a moment before Jean draws it back for his own sip. The intimacy of the whole ordeal leaves the two feeling whole and warm.  
…  
The raven worked tirelessly through the day for a solution and the straw man remained. The fields grew less and less.  
… 

Finally, the raven returned to his straw man with shining eyes and led him once again to the edge of the field. The scarecrow found that the pull of his curse had lessened. His bare foot crossed into the forest Marco’s gentle fingers sought to caress Jean’s cheek as he shed tears of wonderful disbelief.  
“How?” his voice had grown soft in the brisk autumn evenings.  
“I had to. It’s not lasting, yet. I’ll find a way to destroy it. For now, the circle is just disrupted.” he wanted to say so much more.  
“I can’t- thank you.” 

Deft fingers were replaced by tender lips. Questions were forgotten.  
…  
Jean drops down from the apple tree, an apple captured between his teeth and its juice running onto his tongue and down his chin. He finishes his large bite and admires the crispness of the harvest fruit before offering it to his companion for a taste.   
“This year’s crop is excellent.” He quips. Marco accepts it, taking the red fruit from the raven but more intent on another matter. He trails his thumb across Jean’s lip and pops it into his mouth.  
“I must say that I agree.”  
When Marco kisses Jean, he revels in the sweet taste of harvest.   
“Mm, before I forget,” the raven interjects. “Tomorrow’s the festival’s opening. Come with me?”  
“How long does ‘this’ last?” Marco gestures around them, at his freedom.  
“Until the moon returns, for now at least.” Jean sighs and sobers a bit at the mention of their status quo.  
“One more night.” Marco states more than questions.  
“It’s all I could manage- but” Jean begins brow furrowing.   
“No! It’s fine. Really.” Marco takes Jeans hands in his. “I don’t know how to thank you. Honestly, I never could have imagined.”  
They lean their foreheads together and sigh. As the moon’s descent begins, it is felt rather than seen. Their respite of umbra draws to an end and the force that had lessened on the scarecrow returns, drawing him back to his domain.  
They embrace a final time and the raven kisses his scarecrow goodnight before his feathers melt across his form and he takes to the air as dawn graces the horizon.  
…

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to break this up into parts or acts or whatever so that I could get some of it out prior to Halloween because I know the next week or so is going to be insanely busy.  
> This was just a happy accident that happened when I was trying to drink my tea and simultaneously sit out on the back porch with my house cat who seems to be hellbent on escape. I was just chilling and reading fanfiction and thinking about Jean and I saw a raven and then this happened. I really don't know what happened in-between the time that I first thought of it and sat down to write it, but somehow I decided Marco was a scarecrow.  
> I did research and the more I did the more the urge to write this grew and here we are.  
> The rest will be in another chapter or two, I haven't decided how I'm going to split it yet. In the meantime I'll just cry into my textbooks and look longingly at my keyboard and wish for all things harvest. I blame my hot apple cider for the orchard scene and my rambling, sweet things have odd effects.


End file.
